Ash and Smoke
by Nimloth9
Summary: 'The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind' A guess at what Denethor may have faced throughout his life.


'He lies within,' said Denethor, 'burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned. The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!' -The Pyre of Denethor

* * *

**Ash and Smoke**

He burns.

Denethor sat beside him, bowed under the heavy weight of regret, grief, fatigue and despair.  
The shadow closed in on him like black smoke, and the single pale light flickered weakly before him.  
Denethor reached for his son's hand, as his own aged one trembled.

_When had the shadow become so familiar?  
When had it grown so terrible?  
When had he discovered that the same cold shadow had always lain within?_

Darkness pressed, and light faded.

* * *

Ithilien was lost. Villages burned, orcs infested the forests, and the last remaining people fled over the Anduin. Fair Ithilien, the Garden of Gondor, the home of the House of Húrin, was lost. Mount Doom burst into flame.

Denethor knew the shadow then; saw it around him, faint as the mist. But Minas Tirith still stood, proud and unconquered, white and gleaming in the sun. Anduin still held. He lifted his sword against the East and the shadow lifted.

No_ more wouldst thou take. Beyond Anduin, thou shalt not claim!_

* * *

Ecthelion followed Turgon, and Denethor followed Ecthelion. Anduin still held.

Denethor stood at the topmost floor of the Tower and looked into the palantir. He had been told it was perilous to use it. The Enemy holds the Ithil Stone.

_But why continue on with that disadvantage? Sooner than late, the Enemy would unleash his final stroke upon Gondor, and when that happens, Gondor would fall. Peril? To not use the palantir was perilous. _

He saw many things. A company of orcs nearing Anórien. Wild men of Dunland attacking the borders of Rohan. Black ships from the south sailing for Belfalas.

The Enemy saw him. He was strong, dreadfully strong and terrible, the Dark Lord of fear, horror, might and ruin. The Enemy threatened to overpower him with his will, but Denethor answered with unwavering silence. Then the Enemy laughed and offered him pity, mercy and a vision of Gondor in power. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, sitting in the high throne of Gondor, no longer a Steward but a King. All this would come to pass, if-

With steel resolve, Denethor wrenched the Stone to his will and forced it where he wished.  
More victories were won. There were fewer casualties.

Yet ever since, Denethor awoke in the night, saw the shadow dance away, and heard the echoes of a cruel laughter that chilled his heart and filled his mind with dread.

* * *

He could only watch as the shadow fell on her. Her smiles became fewer, her strength faded. She grew pale and thin, fearing the Power that grew in the East, longing for the sea so far from the Mountains of Shadow. Through her withering body and her sad grey eyes, he read her despairing thoughts.

_For all your efforts, the Shadow still grows longer. For all your victories, Ithilien is still a graveyard of Gondor. Our sons will grow and become warriors to what end? To fall in the countless battles against the Dark Lord? _

When he held his limp wife in his arms, the shadow crept close.

And yet- Boromir, only a boy, eyes wet with tears, but still standing strong and brave. And little Faramir, looking up with the bright hopes and dreams of a child.

Dawn came, and the shadow retreated.

* * *

Denethor stared at the broken horn in his hands. Boromir had fallen.

Boromir the brave, the mighty Captain of Gondor and High Warden of the White Tower. Boromir the valiant, who was to be Steward after him, who was to be the Lord and Guardian of Gondor.

Boromir, his son. Dead.  
Darkness fell.

Then Faramir came. His second-born, who was so like him, and yet unlike. Faramir looked at him with the understanding of shared grief and lost hope. And yet behind his cool pitying glance, a pale light gleamed.

_Boromir is dead, and the End nears. What now for Gondor? What will the Steward command?_

A shaft of light pierced the dense darkness, faintly illuminating a path before him.

Denethor stood. 'Evacuate the women and children. Fortify the Rammas Echor. Rally the men from all of Gondor.'

_Not yet._

* * *

His son burned.

Finduilas was right. Everything he did was for naught. His sons fought and fell in vain. Blood spilt needlessly on the bitter ground. The City burned.

Did he not know from the first that he was only delaying the inevitable? Like a child making a wall from sand to oppose the tide. Were all the men of Middle-earth here now behind his banner, they would avail nothing. He had found it. The West has failed.

Denethor gripped his son's hand. Tears, that he had held for Finduilas and Boromir, now dropped painfully on his haggard cheeks.

_My son! Speak to me! _

He grasped for the light, but unanswering, it fled away.

Night fell.

The fire burned.

Ash and smoke filled the air.

_My life is broken._

At the end of all things, he was utterly alone.

* * *

Author's Note: I am not wholly content with this story. But my sister told me that this would never see the light of day if I waited until I was satisfied, and I had to agree. Reviews/criticsms will be appreciated.


End file.
